Brazil, Pushing Macs at the Bookstore, Losing the Battle to Berman, Visits from Laura,
DISENCHANTMENT

Saturday became the matyr of sobriety. I just didn't want to drink anymore. Alcohol felt like a putrid concoction of wastefulness and nightmares.

It was available, but I was uninterested. I wanted pot, but it was unavailable.

Evan and I wandered around Campus trying to connect the dots. A last alliance of Tucker, Schuyler, Evan and Myself formed the core of kids who weren't getting drunk or were not drunk as of yet at least. We strolled from Keeney to Josiah's to Wriston to Keeney and then off to the Avon.

It was midnight, film geeks were assembled on Thayer like oprea aficionados awaiting a performance at the met. The doors were just opening as we walked up. Tucker and Shuyler had long since abadoned ship. Sky Sky had gone in search of a bellydancing girl and Tucker was giving in to invites from the swim team to a thing off campus.

Evan and I alone, artistic purists in every sense, were willing to throw a lost saturday night to projected shadows and integrated sound.

The film was Brazil, a blazing, dystopian Christmas Carol that tripped out like hard drugs delievered visually. I couldn't deal with it. I sat there identifying parallels and actors and subliminal directing touches that connect the film to other Gilliam or Phyton projects.

The movie got out at 2:30. I would not sleep for another two and half hours. Evan and I could feel the movement of ducts on the main green. It was impossible to deny the singular genius of Brazil.

Why was it called Brazil? Why was it set at Christmas? What purpose did the Santa motif serve?

Questions unanswered and unexpectedly profound. The film was a sort of summer reading assignment for people with nothing else to do.

In many ways, the sheer fright that Brazil's dystopian paper golem unleashed on me was exactly what Hunter S. Thompson was seeing in Fear and Loathing. Looking around the Circus Circus and getting the "fear," Thompson was watching our movie. Ironically, or predictably I suppose, Gilliam had directed both of them. There was no way to tell which way I was falling but I was falling fast.

Laura's visit on friday, less than 24 hours prior, had been a sudden splurge of sunshine in a dark, dystopian state. I was disenchanted with Brown. I am disenchanted. Drunk people wasting away fridays and saturdays in the quest for being so fucked up that they wouldn't remember their actions the next day. Was memory so inconsequential? Did they really care so little about what they did? Were their actions so restricted under normal conditions that they required alcohol to predicate foolishness and stupidity?

Is alcohol freedom? Are inambitons the negative products of a taboo driven society?

I didn't give a fuck. I wanted no part of the debauchery- it wasn't even debauchery. Passing out in a bush and needing emergency assistance was stupid not romantic.

I walk around waiting to find that artistic, intellectual core that is the promised heart of Brunonia. Does it even fucking exist? Is it even worth finding? I have followed no name streets to classrooms that the world has forgotten looking for the Ivy League dream I will be forever in debt for?

Disenchantment is spelled like suicide on an emotional surface, and while I continue trying hunt down the fragments of broken dreams and photographs, I wonder if it has at all been worth it.

Do the people in the Library at 2:00 on a Sunday morning party til the sun comes up the next day? Are we in the midst of a class struggle? Is their any pot left in Providence? Midnights make the mornings look brighter than the day before, and I have felt no better finding best friends at Faunce for studying.

She left a book on the table and an addiction to cheap cigarettes in my body memory. I will burn in the conflagration of caring. I will burn her book and delete phone numbers that link us.

I will be free.

I will be re-enchanted, if the dream will take me again.